


In Boston, a Street Name chooses You (Mafia-/preTF2-AU)

by LigeiaMaloy



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: AU, Derogatory Language, M/M, Mild Gore, Sexist Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LigeiaMaloy/pseuds/LigeiaMaloy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Spy had ever heard of MannCo he had quickly formed some promising connections with a minor Mafia family in Boston. Only one little lapse, and friends turn into enemies. He has only one chance, one last connection, to escape this uncomfortable situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Boston, a Street Name chooses You (Mafia-/preTF2-AU)

**Author's Note:**

> This was a gift for Tumblr-user TF2seabelt. The prompt was:
> 
> "Spy/Scout or Spy Scout gen, Spy takes a contact from an organization that ends up having unintended consequences. He ends up on the run from some powerful people and reluctantly enlists Scout’s help. An appearance from Scout’s ma as a mob boss would be gr8."
> 
> All names and events are fictional, the bits I know about Mafia structures is from TV. This story doesn’t serve any historical or educational purpuse, it’s pure fiction.

 

 

**In Boston, a Street Name chooses You**

 

“Excusez-moi.” Head bent low he shoved past a trio of young men. “Watch it, asshole!” they cried after him, shaking their fists, one rubbing his arm.

“Sorry,” he mumbled without looking at the elderly woman’s face when he stepped on her foot. He pressed his way forward, through the forsaken streets of Boston. Behind him he heard the voices from before, protesting, telling the sturdy stranger with the full mustache and his two gunmen to shut up and get lost when he asked them where the skinny blond guy had headed.

There was no need for him to lift his head and glance at one of the stores’ windows. Blond hair curled in the back of his neck, easing his features when they tumbled down his temples, sharpening them when he stroke them behind his ears. A long, narrow nose and smart blue eyes gave him the air of a predator, always on the hunt for his next victim, a trait even round glasses with the golden, thin rim couldn’t conceal.

“Madmoiselle. Merci.” He nodded as a young girl stepped aside to make way for him. A blush colored her cheeks pink when the strange gentleman smiled at her. Just soft, just long enough to give the impression of a polite and shy student, but not a second longer. He couldn’t afford to waste time.

Since he had left Old Sophia’s house he hadn’t looked back once. Irritated and loud voices told him all he had to know about his pursuers. They still haven’t spotted him, relying solely on the pedestrians. But they were coming closer.

Well then. Although earlier than intended it was time for step two of his plan.

Not slowing down the slightest bit he looked around.

 

A typical late afternoon in Boston. Cars chased down the road, their fumes tainting the air gray, a dirty, unpleasant color matching the filthy slush on the asphalt. It had been snowing since the early morning, but tires and footsteps alike made sure that not a patch of white splendor allowed anyone to forget it was a dull Monday in a late November.

Rushing along the main road of a busy district, many of the ladies and gentlemen he passed huddled themselves in long dark coats, keeping a bitter wind out of their bones.

He wasn’t dressed for the weather; with a loose fitting, deerskin jacket and brown loafers instead of polished black boots he stood out like a crisp October Sunday in a cheerless winter.

If he had been spotted two minutes earlier, if he had dawdled the first one, two times he had crossed the streets, or moved too fast to catch the family’s attention he would have been dead three streets ago.

A grin destroyed the image of the good, befuddled student. Forcing his lips back to the soft smile he headed towards a flower stand. A woman years past her prime and facial paint of a young, over eager girl stood behind a table adorned with buckets and vases, all of them containing white and red roses.

 

“Madmoiselle.” He bowed, his eyes twinkling at her over the rim of his glasses.

“French? Oh, I know the French! Amour, amour, and once in a while some wine.” She threw her copper and white hair back, upsetting the floppy green hat. “How many roses will you need to bury another broken heart?” She winked at him, her fingers playfully tipping against the blossom of a splendid red rose.

The grin returned as he laughed out,”A rat’s heart doesn’t deserve to be buried beneath these ugly flowers!” With a blow he swept the vases off the table, cackling at her shrill outcry.

“Thanks you, Madmoiselle, this will do.” He picked a single white rose and dashed off.

Behind him, she screamed, somebody help, somebody catch the blond bastard and shove his glasses up his behind, and other, even less uncertain terms.

Splendid, he chuckled to himself. Familiar voices shouted at her, and he caught the words bearded and deerskin. This was enough.

He hastened around another corner, rejoicing when a pub came into his sight. Customers left, customers entered, and he was one of them. A few seconds and a cloakroom, that was all what he needed.

A moment later a tall man left the bar, his eyes inspecting the heavy clouds, and frowned in disdain. His sleek black hair was brushed out of his face. Gray temples let him look older than he was. The corner of his mouth twitched as he threw a thick coat over his slim shoulders, protecting his black suit from the mix of snow and rain that greeted him once he stepped outside.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him when he wanted to continue his way.

 

“Sir, have you seen a man running by? Blond? Bearded chin and sideburns? Glasses and ugly brown jacket?”

He turned around, seizing up the inquirer’s face in less than a second. Puffing, the cheeks burning feverish in contrast to the black, shoulder long hair. A thick black mustache quivered above the puffing mouth. As out of breath as that man was, as determined and murderous glowed his black eyes.

“No… wait, yes! Yes indeed” He nodded before allowing the trio to study his features. His eyes looked up as though they searched his memory. “Rude and impertinent he was running further down the street,” he continued, his accent clear and unambiguously British.

“Out of the way, Brit!” One of the taller gunmen pushed him out of the way, storming a head, followed by his two partners.

“Have a good day, mes amis.” Whistling to himself he walked down the street, slowly, and relaxed. The commotion behind the bar’s closed door wasn’t his business anymore. As for his pursuers - it would take a while until learned of a pair of glasses, a blond wig, a fake beard of the same color, and a cheap brown jacket lying on the floor of a bar. Right next to the unconscious body of a barefooted man who had been robbed of his suit.

 

**~ ~ two days later ~~**

 

“Non! Je ne crois que tu me-”

“Jerome, English!”

“Nique ta mere English, Sergio!” He slammed his fists onto the oak desk, upsetting a pile of papers. A pen rolled over the surface and over the edge, landing safely on the dark red carpet. A dark strand of otherwise carefully combed back hair fell over his face, and dark blue eyes flashed at the person sitting at the other side of the table.

Sergio didn’t flinch, nor betrayed his bored, watery eyes if he felt any remorse, or if the scene amused him. Jerome assumed it was the latter, and his anger grew into bright wrath.

 

“Sit down, Jerome, now! I won’t talk to you if you behave like an animal.” The old man stroke over his white beard, maybe thoughtfully, maybe in approval when the Frenchman clenched his jaws together and sat down.

“I warned you that this job is going to be dangerous,” he finally began, but Jerome interrupted him with a snort.

“Dangerous! Merde!” He shot up from his chair, but forced himself down again when Sergio frowned. “My work was perfect. I do not make mistakes!” he hissed through his teeth. “They could not know who I am. I do not make mistakes, not because of this!” he repeated, holding up a small amulet. A golden oval not bigger than a dime dangled from a thin golden chain. The once shiny surface was dull, and the edge chipped. _Love, S + S,_ Jerome had finally deciphered the tiny, engraved letters.

“Well, for Sophia this is an important object. Nostalgia, if you will.” Sergio shrugged as he stood up. He opened the cupboard behind him, taking out two glasses and a bottle of wine. “You?” He put one glass back when Jerome shook his head.

“Even in our business money can’t buy memories.” He had set down again and poured himself a generous glass of wine.

“I don’t care if this is part of the crown jewels or came from a gumball machine.” Jerome tossed the necklace onto the desk. “How could they find me? Sergio, it is not amusing to find the head of a dead cat nailed to my door.”

“If you didn’t make a mistake and they didn’t see you then it’s probably magic.”

“This is not a time for joking!” But Jerome’s growl didn’t impress the old man’s chuckles. “Sergio, why do they know? You said this job is safe. And now a family is after my head! Bring me to the Don, I want protection.” With his final words Sergio’s amused smirk changed back into a thin, indifferent line below his white mustache.

“I’m sorry, Jerome. You are on your own. We risk to destroy the truce between the families if we offer refuge to the crook who stole from Sophia herself. There’s nothing we can do for you.”

“Are you kidding me?” The Frenchman shook his head, his eyes wide in disbelief. “You assured me it’s a simple job as long as they don’t know my identity! You said yourself that I am the best man for the job, a true master of disguise!”

“Even masters of disguise make mistakes, Jerome. Regard our contract as invalid. We’ll return the amulet to its rightful owner. I’m afraid to say so, my friend,” with a sigh he leaned forward, his hand resting on his folded hands as he stared at Jerome. “This is it for you. You have two choices. We deliver you along with the necklace and maybe you’ll only use a hand. Flee, and they’ll find you. Then you are dead. Either way, here ends your career, Spy.”

 

Jerome didn’t reply. His street name echoed through his mind, along with Sergio’s words as he struggled to grasp them. This was impossible! It had been such a simple job, and everything had gone according to his plan. Could it be – no! He hadn’t been careless. Even when he looked straight into Vito’s – Old Sophia’s son – eyes his cover hadn’t been blown. None of them had recognized him as the thief, nor as anyone associated with the deed. But how…

His back stiffened, and for a second he forgot to breathe.

“You…” Slowly, he rose from his seat. He placed his hands once more onto the desk, firmly, without force. He bent down, lowering his voice as he growled only one word.

“Traitor.”

“Did it never come into your mind that _Spy_ wasn’t the wisest choice of a name?” Suddenly, Sergio sounded tired as he sighed. He took another sip from his wine and leaned back into his chair.

“I brought you into our family, Jerome. I wouldn’t have done so if I doubted you were of use. Oh, and you were.” He chuckled, answering the Frenchman’s glare with an amused smile. “Did you really believe that we wouldn’t learn about your other jobs? Spy, yes, indeed. Watch it, youngster!” The second Jerome flicked his knife open, Sergio’s gun was already pointing at the angry man’s pale face.

“I like you, so I’ll allow you to choose: Come with me now, or run.”

 

*****

 

“Run, pah!” Swinging his keys around his slender middle finger he entered the apartment complex. He closed the door behind him, but opened it again. His gaze wandered along the road, first to his left, next to his right. A group of children ran across the street, laughing when a white Volvo stopped with screaming tires. A second later, and the street would have been filled with police officers and curious bystanders in no time. Voices, screams, blood and upset men and woman, the perfect camouflage for anyone who wanted to spill more blood.

As it was, the children shrieked when the angry driver jumped out of his car and shouted after them. They ran, the man climbed back into his car, and drove away. Nothing more. The kids’ high-pitched laughter faded soon in the distance. Silence. The evening-fog crept around the corner, and the heavy dark clouds promised more snow for the night.

“A Jerome Roux never runs away!” With a grim snort he finally closed the door. His chin held high he walked down the corridor. A light flickered, and he didn’t waste his time looking at the elevator. The only thing that had been renewed was the out-of-order-sign.

He whistled when a melody from a song he remembered his mother singing to him in stormy nights, only stopping once when footsteps echoed down the stairway.

“Good evening, Jerry!” a shaky voice greeted him.

“Good morning, Miss Price!” He granted her a cheerful smile. The Price Widow, this charming old lady, always friendly and polite, even on a bad day like this. He felt he might forgive her calling him Jerry.

Switching his whistling from calming to a more upbeat tune he finally arrived on the third floor. The corridor was dark, but he wasn’t worried. He had informed the janitor two weeks ago about the broken light bulbs, so he didn’t expect anything to change before two more weeks passed.

 

A few steps later he fell silent.

 

The third door on the left side of the corridor was his.

The severed head of a small dog had been nailed to the door. Two long blades had been driven through its eyes. His mouth gaped open in a grotesque tiny-doggie-smile, as if it was about to happily yap at him.

A leather collar sticking around the remaining part of the dog’s throat was about to slip of any second. A small, shiny tag dangled from it.

It didn’t matter that it was too dark to read, Jerome knew what was written on it.

_Vinnie Price_

The blood running from its mouth and down the door was still fresh.

His eyes followed the red trail. A faint yellow light shone from under the crack of the door.

Holding his breath, Jerome backed away from the horrifying sight, slowly, very slowly, step by step, back to the stairways.

A floor board creaked under his weight, and he began to run.

 

*****

 

Broad daylight offered safety. During the night it was easier to hear the footsteps before a pursuer’s shadow fell around the corner; it was easier to hear a hunter’s heartbeat when nothing distracted from heavy breathing. Jerome, known as the Spy from Boston, had learned this after many years of stalking his targets. That, and more:

It was also easier to spot the prey.

Now he was the one to be hunted down, by those who knew how to tell the silhouette of a man apart from that of a trash can or a shrubbery.

The always moving crowd with its wall of grumbling and chattering didn’t mind one more man among them; any drone of the day became one of it, as long as it didn’t slow the bustling and talking down.

As long as Jerome moved between workers, slackers and promenaders as one of them he was safe. Another wig, a hunched back today, a pillow for a round belly tomorrow, and hiding from the families was a game. And even if one of the men standing at the street corners recognized him – with dozens of people around him they couldn’t risk attacking him.

 

However, Jerome was growing tired of this game of hide-and-seek; the idea that his life was at gamble was losing its thrill. Besides, his back was aching from sleeping in cold, hard places in parks or abandoned buildings, or, like the other night, inside a wardrobe between old and moth-eaten coats.

His steps still in sync with the stream of people he looked around. Good, no pair of eyes was resting on him, he could dare to leave the small group of gentlemen he had been chatting with since they’ve left the station. Saying his good-byes with a smile and a friendly bow, he turned away, careful to neither rush nor dwadle down the street. He checked his watch when he walked past a familiar looking figure; Mariano, one of Sergio’s man, had been guarding the same lamppost for the fourth day now. Jerome had stopped counting how often he had slipped past the tall, broad-shouldered man with the dark pony-tail. And once more the frowning brute didn’t see past his auburn curls and the matching beard.

Jerome suppressed a chuckle. Yes, during the day it had been easy to fool his enemies. But if he trusted that his skill and luck would never be outsmarted, he ran risk of becoming the fool. As much as he hated to admit it – if he wanted his relaxed, comfortable lifestyle back he needed help, and he feared there was only one place left where he could find it.

He took down his hat and freed it from snow, wiping another layer from his shoulders. Another quick look assured him he wasn’t followed, another at his watch told him not even two minutes had passed since the last time he checked the time.

Well, there he was. Whatever he would do now was nothing but stalling, unless he finally stepped through the wooden door.

A moment later, and the cold, busy world was shut out from this other world.

Music, upbeat Jazz melodies, danced around his head, and a thick cloud of warmth and perfume engulfed his mind and body. Candles were burning, as was a merry fire in the fire place at the other end of the room. Lanterns were hanging from the ceiling, the only sources of electric light, dimmed by red glass shades. A small petroleum lamp stood on every table, their faint like just strong enough to illuminate the faces of those sitting around it.

He needed a moment to get used to the blurry, warm spots of light, but his sharp eyes quickly were able again to make out the shapes of the faces belonging to those lazing the day away in wide satin armchairs. He recognized one man from the way his back and shoulders arched while the elderly face was buried between a young woman’s soft breasts; a man who should be busy helping to govern the city, if Jerome wasn’t mistaken. What a waste of valuable information, but these day he had no use for it.

 

“What desire leads you here, handsome? Wine? Opium? A lady’s bosom? Or a boy’s smooth chest?” A husky voice laughed into his ear, and a slender arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“If that isn’t Camilla in person. How are you, dear?” He leaned his head back, his bearded cheek moving against her soft skin. That voice, the sickly sweet smell of roses and sugary spices, the firm breasts pressing against his back – who else could it have been than Camilla herself, the boss of the “Sleeping Lamb.” A name harmless enough for an establishment like this, where men and woman came to enjoy themselves with other men, women, alcohol and sometimes, not so legal substances.

“Do I know you, darling?” She slid around him, raised her head and studied his face through thoughtful green eyes. “I’m not sure, I feel like I’ve seen that nose before.”

“Oh yes, you have!” He laughed, lifted her hand and kissed it gently. “Be a dear, Camilla, and tell me – is the brat here today?”

“Oh!” Her face brightened with realization. Joining his laughter, the short woman nudged his side with a pointy elbow. “You got yourself into quite some trouble, didn’t you? Don’t worry, don’t worry.” She gave his chest a playful punch when he frowned. “Their business is theirs, mine is mine.”

“Is he here? Or will he come later?” He gave a sigh of relief. Even if the reason why he came wasn’t here, Camilla was trustworthy; he wouldn’t mind to waste some time relaxing with a drink at all.

“Let’s see.” She narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly, as though deep in thought. “It’s Monday, it’s past noon, when every responsible soul is out to gain a penny or two, in whatever manner that may be. Of course he’s here, has been for two hours.” She giggled, as her slim finger pointed over her shoulder, at one of the secluded corners of the lounge. “But I fear he’s already busy with one of my boys.”

“It’s all right, my dear.” A bundle of green notes, shoved between her round breasts, helped him soothing her concerns. “Tell him it’s Jerome.”

 

Camilla scurried away, her hips swaying as though she was dancing, her long, yellow curls bouncing down her back with every step. She disappeared behind a thin dividing wall. In the mellow light the ruby-colored barrier blended into the background, being hardly distinguishable from the room’s wall of the same color.

Jerome was still standing in the middle of the room, feeling curious – but not hostile – glances on him as he waited. Time always stood in the “Sleeping Lamb”. There was no need to be in a hurry or nervous, whatever happened here would forever have happened only here, and every one seeing him was guilty of their own sins since the moment they stepped inside.

Camilla returned so quickly he didn’t have time to grow impatiently. She answered his smile with a wink and a nod, already wisping away to greet a new arrival. Leaving his good friend to her business, Jerome stepped behind the wall, entering one of the more secluded corners of the “Lamb.”

Three armchairs, all of them deep and cozy with big upholstery covered by dark-red velvet, were arranged around a round glass table. Two empty glasses stood on top of the table, along with a bottle of red wine. Only two of the armchairs were empty. On the third, a young man was sitting on the lap of another person. A pair of hands was moving beneath the youngster’s shirt; neither of the two seemed to care about Jerome.

 

“Hello, kid. I see you are busy?” Giving a little laugh, Jerome let himself fall into one of the free armchairs, having a good view on the stranger’s back.

“Oh! Camilla didn’t say it’s you! Get lost, moron!” The youth was shoved from the other young man’s lap and already forgotten once he stood on his feet.

“Don’t worry, boy, I already paid Camilla for your service.” Jerome gave the so ungracefully rejected young man – one of Camilla’s servant boys - a gentle smile. He shrugged, and left without another word.

“She just said I had some unexpected visitor. Nice surprise, man. Wine?”

“No, thank you, I rather not.” Jerome flinched as the young man offered to fill one of the used glasses for him. “Sure you should drink at that hour, kid?” he couldn’t resist to reprimand the youth as he tried to remember how old he was. 20? 21? Fifteen years younger… Jerome shook his head. This wasn’t the time to worry about minor details, no pun intended, of course.

“Hey man, told ya, it’s Scout, not Kid or something. Scout. Everyone around knows the Scout, the fasted-”

“- kid?” Jerome offered with a grin.

“The fasted man around,” the youth finished, a self-satisfied smile on his face. His blue eyes glowed almost purple in the yellow and red light around them. Feeling the older man’s gaze on him, the Scout lifted his chin, his hand running through his hair – the disheveled, dark-blond mess with no doubt the work of the eager fingers of the boy from before. When he kept his mouth shut, he was a cute kid, with his slim features, the narrow, snub nose, and the expressive face. Jerome couldn’t deny this. Three more years, given or taken, and he would be a handsome man.

 

His own grin didn’t escape the eager eyes.

 

“Ya doubt me, Frenchie, ain’t ya?” The Scout rose from his seat, not even bothering to pull his red shirt down. “Which part? Fast? Or man?”

“Pretty cocky for a brat your age.” Jerome watched the youthful face as the young man came closer to him, assuming that the blush on the Scout’s face wasn’t only caused by too much wine.

“Told you before, man, I’m not a brat. I’m not a kid, not a little boy, not a naïve idiot who should fuck dudes his own age.” Scout faked a yawn, letting himself slide on the lap of the Frenchman, who chuckled when he recognized the words he had used so often to reject the Scout’s advances.

“I’m old enough to know who’s cock I want. Ugh, this stuff looks like shit on you.” He slowly bend down, his fingers running over Jerome’s fake beard.

“Too charming, as always.” He held still when the fingertips peeled the beard off and removed the wig. His head tilted, the grin wide with triumph, the youth’s hands smoothened the now revealed black hair. Cocky brat, Jerome thought again, chuckling when the fingers reached his neck. Despite the well heated temperature of the lounge, they were cold against his skin.

“You’re trembling, like a nervous little bunny.”

“Bullshit,” the Scout hissed, his hands clawing into the man’s hair.

“Acting bigger doesn’t make you bigger, _Scout.”_

“Bullshit,” the youth repeated, leaning forward, his lips brushing over Jerome’s. “And you don’t kick me, or push me away. Can’t be so bad, _Spy_ _._ ”

“I’ll admit that your confident act has a charm of its own. Let’s push it some more.” Without any further warning, he grabbed the Scout by his chin. He didn’t waste time when the Scout gasped in surprise, letting his tongue slide into the young man’s warm mouth when their lips touched. He bit the Scout’s bottom lip, enjoying the softness of youth, wishing he had taken off his leather gloves. He bet that the skin of the young man’s face also felt alluringly soft.

Jerome put his free hand on the Scout’s ass, pulling him closer. When he shoved his fingers beneath the waistband of the youth’s pants and felt for the small, firm buttocks, he was rewarded with another gasp.

He broke the kiss, his lips moving close to the Scout’s ear, gently biting the lobe as he whispered,

 

“I need your help.”

 

“You’re cruel. Can’t ya just for once pretend ya want me?” The Scout’s half-hearted attempt to pull away was in vain, the strong hand still held him by his chin, while the the other moved from his ass around his waist, stopping at the front.

With the ease of experience, Jerome opened the button, giving the waistband of the young man’s briefs a playful tug.

“You want this, I want your help. You want to be grown up? Then let’s make a deal between grown ups.” He enjoyed his delightful game more than he had expected. This was fun, how the lean body shivered under his touch, how the little gasp for air turned into a moan when he let his fingers run deeper, over the hard groin.

“Sex for a favor? Slut. Ah!” Scout’s voice broke off when the warm hand slipped into his briefs. Playful teeth bit the skin of his throat raw; the Frenchman chuckled, his warm breath tickling the Scout, sending another shiver down his spine.

“Who’s the slut here? Mhm, horny, and needy.” He seized the soft hair and pulled him into their second kiss. “Tastes like virgin.” He leaned back and licked his lips, laughing at the Scout’s indignant snort.

“I’m not a - “ But the older man’s mouth cut his words off.

“Lean back,” he commanded, placing one hand on the youth’s lower back. “I’ll give you a free sample. Don’t worry, I’ll hold you.”

To his surprise the Scout did as he had told him. The young man didn’t protest, nor did he make any snappy remark, but he gave Jerome a challenging smile.

“Let’s see what ya have to offer.”

“Now, that’s the attitude of a businessman,” Jerome grinned in return. It could be so easy to rip the fake mask of confidence off. The Scout’s words might have been cheeky, his smile sassy; all that didn’t hide the tensed back Jerome felt beneath his hand, the irregular heaving of the young man’s chest, and the trembling of the hands that were still running through Jerome’s hair.

He pulled down the young man’s briefs as far as he could, freeing the Scout’s erection. He brushed against it, feeling a shudder of his own at the youth’s groan.

“Here.” He rose his hand, his leather-covered fingertips touching the Scout’s lips. “Help me pulling them off.”

The Scout nodded, his teeth biting the leathery end of the index finger, careful not to bite the finger itself.

“Good kid. Now don’t drop it.” He laughed, his now free hand stroking over the soft cheek when the pink blush turned crimson. “You’re a lot cuter when you shut up. Don’t drop it!” he warned, giving the red cheek a teasing slap. The Scout swallowed his protest, his clenched teeth still holding the glove.

Jerome’s fingers closed around the hard cock, gently moving up and down. The Scout squirmed on his lap, but the older man’s hand on his back made sure he didn’t lose his balance.

Jerome’s eyes rested on the Scout’s face, watching the fine muscles twitch. The blond head was thrown back first, then dropped onto the abruptly moving chest as the Scout struggled to hold back his moans.

He opened his eyes, shooting a glare at Jerome, teeth grinding over the leather.

“You should thank me. Or do you want the whole club to hear you? Although-” He leaned forward, licking over the bruised throat. “I admit it’s a pity. I wonder – would you groan like an animal? Or cry out like a virgin?” His thumb brushed over the hard cock’s head.

“Leaking already? And you think you can last long enough to enjoy _my_ cock in your ass? Mon petit vierge?” A deep growl echoed through his ear. Two surprisingly strong hands grabbed him by his shoulders and pushed him back deep into the cushions of the armchair.

The Scout bent above him, glowering down at him as he spit the glove out of his mouth. He hissed something, the voice too throaty for Jerome to understand. Then, he felt the Scout’s lips on his, the tongue forcing its way into Jerome’s mouth. The force of the kiss was interrupted by small gasps and moans, and when Jerome’s hand stopped stroking the youth’s clock, the Scout’s hips began to thrust against the warm palm.

 

“Hush.” Jerome’s hands let go of the young man, raised them, and gently caressed the Scout’s feverish face. “Hush, calm down, or there won’t be much left for another time.”

“Don’t you dare to stop,” the Scout breathed, his cock hard aching for more touches, only a few more would have been enough.

Jerome knew that.

“You dropped my glove,” he chided with a grin. “Trial period is over. Do your part of the deal, and we’ll continue later.”

“No tricks?”

“No tricks.”

“I want you to fuck me. A whole night. No excuses, no tricks. And you’ll call me Scout, not kid or something.” Shaking with unresolved need he rested his forehead against Jerome’s. Tiny pearls of sweat ran down his temples, making him feel cold and warm at the same time, while he didn’t know if the scent of the older man’s aftershave and smoke calmed him down, or made it impossible to calm down. Feeling the warmth from Jerome’s body, and his twitching fingers began to fumble with the buttons of the white shirt.

“A whole night, nothing but sex, if you, Scout, can handle it or not.” He took the trembling hands into his. “If you help me.”

“What do you want me to do? Get information? Beat somebody up?”

“Take me to your mother.”

 

*****

 

She was a head smaller than her son, and from behind she looked no older than twenty-something. A tight belt gave her waist an even more youthful look; her hips and buttocks were only slightly rounded, bringing up the question how petite she had been before giving birth to seven sons. Rich, black hair, tamed by a blue ribbon, gently curled in the back of her neck.

She hummed a cheerful melody, the rhythm matching the chopping sounds of her knife. The small step from the counter to the oven was light and bouncy, as though she was about to join a spring dance instead of adding sliced carrots to the boiling stew.

 

“My, Gem! You’re back early. What did you bring me?” She put the knife aside, cleaned her hands in her apron as she swirled around. The beaming smile betrayed her age; wrinkles around her eyes and mouth told of a sense of humor that had developed over years. Her black eyes sparkled, but at the second glance a careful observer would notice the shadows under her eyes.

“Are you all right, baby? You didn’t catch a fever, did you?” She greeted her son with open arms, feeling his forehead after a short, but hearty hug.

“Nah, I’m fine, it’s just the fresh air. Mom, stop!” the Scout groaned in dismay and shoved her hands away from his still flushed face. “The Spy wanted to see you. I’m off. Busy.” He turned on his heel, escaping his mother’s piercing eyes that always seemed to know too much.

“See ya later, yeah?” he mumbled, giving Jerome a push, and dashed out of the kitchen. A door fell shut, and from the other side of the wall footsteps rushed up the stairs to the first floor.

“My Gem, always _so_ busy. Have a seat, Mr. Spy. Tea or coffee?” She pointed at one of the kitchen chairs.

“Coffee, but don’t inconvenience yourself!” He sat down, folded his hands and put them onto the table.

“Nonsense, dear. Trust me, I’m a mother of seven!” She gave a laugh. “And the head of a small but old family. Having a cup of coffee in peace with a French gentleman will be my pleasure. Milk or sugar?”

“Sugar, please. I thought you’ve more or less retired from business. Although a word like _retire_ doesn’t suit a youthful lady such as you at all,” he added with a smile. He accepted the cup with steaming hot coffee with a grateful smile, and added two sugar cubes from the small porcelain bowl she had put onto the table.

“You really are charming.” She chose a chair opposite to his and sat down with a cup of her own. She preferred her coffee black, Jerome noted.

“On the other hand,” she added. “I would have been disappointed if you skipped such an obvious chance for pleasantries. So, let me answer your question, then I have a few for you, then you may ask again.” She sipped on her coffee, smiling with delight as she enjoyed the bitter yet smooth flavor.

 

He used the brief moment of her absent thoughts to glance around the kitchen. The stew simmered on the stove, causing a delicious smell of fresh vegetables and nutritious fat, lamb, if he wasn’t mistaken. Even though their arrival had interrupted her cooking, the kitchen was spot clean.

The room itself was large, yet the kitchen seemed very small. The reason was the large table with ten chairs that took most of the space. He wondered who used to join the family’s meals, and when the last time was when all seven sons gathered.

The moment was over, and her mind returned to their conversation.

 

“It’s true, I planned to slowly retreat from business. Raphael, my oldest, has helped me long enough to run everything on his own. But I’m still aware of everything that’s going on, and there are some affairs I prefer to settle, and others prefer to settle through me,” she explained with her calm, gentle voice. Yet, Jerome sensed a firmness in her words that belonged to a tough head of a business and a family. Whoever took her just for a sweet, good-looking housewife would surely regret it.

“And that’s why you asked to see me, and not my successor, although you are aware of the changes,” she closed. From the pocket of her apron she fished a package of cigarettes, offering it to him. Gladly he accepted, and allowed her to light it. In most other situations he would have thought it inappropriate that he wasn’t the one offering a lady a smoke, but he felt thoughts like that weren’t necessary in her presence.

“That’s true,” he confirmed, taking a long pull. A nice brand of tobacco, smooth, without the harsh bitterness many cheaper brands offered, but yet strong. He made a mental note to ask her later where she bought those.

“Good.” She lit her own cigarette between her red painted lips, and inhaled the smoke deeply. “I’ll tell you right away, Mr. Spy, I value honesty. Forgive an old mother her foolish pride, but after raising all these wonderful boys I know when a man lies to me.

Did you sleep with my son?”

“What, no, I…!” He choke on the smoke in his throat, violent coughs cut his voice off.

“Will you?”

“Well, I…” He took a deep breath, forcing the tears in his eyes back. He couldn’t lie, but he certainly couldn’t tell the truth. How should he explain to her…

“He’ll be happy if you do.” She had waited for him to calm down, drinking another sip from her cup. “He likes you, did so since you introduced yourself – how long has it been – four years ago? Thought so.” She smiled when he nodded, offering him a handkerchief from her apron’s pocket. It was white and clean, and smelled of tobacco. He croaked a quick thank you, and wiped a tear from his face.

“Dear Mr Spy, I know my baby very well, and I want you to know that I don’t disapprove. I would have back then, when he had been only 16… but now it’s fine. If you don’t want him it’s your decision, but I expect you to act like a gentleman. Even if he’s a brat.” She laughed when his face grew pale.

“I would never say something like that, I mean, he is young, and I don’t have any bad intentions, and of course I’d never dare to, well…” He bit his lip, silently cursing himself. He was behaving as nervous and silly in front of this woman as the Scout did in front of him. There really was something about her that made him feel like a dumb little boy again, although he was probably closer to her age than he was to the Scout’s. No wonder that this lady used to rule the district for years after her husband’s death.

“Of course you call him a brat, Mr Spy. Or may I call you Jerome? It’s a beautiful name. Thank you, Jerome,” she added when he assured her with a quick nod. “Jerome, you see, I love my baby Gem more than anything. But I’m not blind. He is a brat. Cute, lively, strong minded, but yes, he’s a brat. A mother who loves unconditionally is not always the mother a boy needs, Jerome.” She sighed, and extinguished the remains of her cigarette inside a polished, silver-colored ashtray.

“I’m guilty of spoiling him. He was so young when his father died, and with so many older brothers he’ll never have to take a leading role in our family. His oldest nephew, Raphael’s first son, is two years older than my Gem. There is no real need for him to be a responsible leader of a family like ours.” A new cigarette between her fingers, she fell silent, her thoughtful eyes watching the smoke rise from her lips.

“May I ask – you call him Gem, why? Is that his name?” There was something about the silence that made him uneasy. Well, not uneasy, but there was suddenly a certain tension between them. Not the hostile kind, he didn’t fear for his safety. Yet he knew she wasn’t the over-passionate kind of a mother who would constantly ramble about her children, especially not when somebody was seeking advice from her as the boss of the family.

“My pet name for my precious baby. My late husband insisted to name him Jeremy, after his own father. A nice name, yes. But too long for a baby, and I never liked ‘Jerry’.”

“I can relate,” he muttered under his breath.

“I’m sure you can. Butchering a beautiful name as yours… Jerome and Jeremy, has a nice ring to it. Oh, don’t look at me like that! I was joking!” She laughed, patting his hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not such a foolish mom that would force you at gunpoint to become my boy’s lover. Enough of this for now!

How may I help you, Jerome ‘Spy’ Roux? Allow me to guess – it’s about your troubles with the Petrillo Family?”

“Yes.” He was aware that everybody knew by now about the mess he had brought upon himself. As it was, even if she hadn’t been her first choice to ask for help, she would have been the only one. Every other clan or family in the state was either associated with the Petrillos, or with Sergio’s family, the Santones.

He told her his tale from his point of view without wasting too many words. He assumed that she already knew most of the details. Although her clan was known for its neutrality it was of course a crucial part of the business to collect all pieces of information floating around in a busy city like Boston.

“That’s the problem with Sophia. She’s stubborn and sentimental. Otherwise, a wise woman, very wise and shrewed.” She had poured him and herself a second cup of coffee, letting him talk without interrupting him. “But when it’s about her Salvadore she turns into a malicious witch. Everyone knows that. And as everyone respects her as one of the oldest among us it’s easy to use her quirks to turn half of the country against one person. I’m afraid that happened to you.”

“I thought of returning to France. But…” He shrugged, stirring his coffee without much enthusiasm.

“You had your reasons to leave in the first place. I don’t need to know. You want my help?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll help you. Whatever reason somebody had to trick you is not my business. I see no sense in hunting down a man who is too powerless to do any real harm. I prefer to leave the others to their little games. Not that I need to explain myself.” She gave a snort, pushing a cloud of smoke out of her small nose.

“I understand. Can you do something to stop the madness?”

“No. Not without calling in too many chips. Even my Gem’s first real crush isn’t worth that. Am I rude?” She winked at him, her lips forming a sweet, almost innocent smile that made her look ten years – or at least five sons – younger.

“No, Madmoiselle, we’re talking business here. I like to know where I stand.” After all the mind games and deceptions against him he appreciated her frankness. She was, in many ways, like Old Sophia, outspoken and well aware of her power and limits, but without the unreasonable quirks. If he had learned something during the last days, then it was not to mistake frankness for naivity. He had been wide awake for enough hours since his downfall to regret that he hadn’t made an effort to become a closer acquaintance of Sophia.

“How can you help me? Is there a way to distract them? Or do I have to hide? Where?” he asked. It hadn’t been a problem for him to remain calm and composed since the moment he had left Sergio’s office. Even when he had found old Misses Price’s mutt nailed against his door he didn’t panic. What was supposed to be running away from those who wanted him dead he had turned into a game of hide and seek. Unnerving, yes, but he had had everything under control.

Now that a solution, and end to his dire predicament, was so close, only a few words away, he was growing restless.

“The latter. I’ll tell you the truth, you are just who I needed to make a final decision about my baby’s future. I ask you, are you willing to do me a favor in return of my help?” The cheerful sparkle disappeared from her eyes, and was replaced by a solemn glow. Her voice became deeper. She rose from her chair and walked around the table, until she stood behind Jerome.

“Listen closely to what I have to tell you.” She put her hands on his shoulders, her slim, manicured fingers pressing through his clothes into his flesh. He winced at the unexpected pain, but stopped himself from crying out.

“At the end, you either say yes, and it’s settled. Or you say no, and I’ll return to my neutral stance.” She waited a bit, and when he realized she waited for an answer he nodded. She continued,

“A few weeks ago I called in a favor from an acquaintance of mine. She agreed to hire Gem. It’s a difficult job that would force him to leave his home for the first time in his life. He will be the youngest, among rough men with decades of life experience. He will have to learn how to fight, to obey, and to kill.”

“Sounds perfect for him, just what he needs. I apologize, I didn’t want to interrupt you!” He bit his tongue; the last thing he wanted to do was criticizing the brat in front of his loving mother. That she was one he had no doubt, no matter how openly she admitted her son’s fault to him.

“No, I agree with you. I know it’s what he needs. I don’t want him to be broken, or changed into someone he isn’t. But I want him to become someone who can survive being who he is.”

This made sense. He had been stalked by the youth for four years. Although he hadn’t wanted to, he had learned a thing or two about the boy-who-was-almost-a-man. Strong willed and stubborn, confident and haughty, individual and aimless. The lines were very fine, and depending on the side the youth would finally choose it would make him or break him as a good, strong character.

Not that he cared much for the fate of this irritating loudmouth, but even he had seen that there was something worthwhile and likable in him. Not the boy himself should be broken, but the facade he had created around himself.

“How can I help?”

“I want you to go with him. I’ll call my friend and tell her I have another, an experienced man for her to hire. If I’m not mistaken you are not only skilled with the knife, you also know a thing or two about disguises? And you speak at least half a dozen languages, perfect from word to accent?”

“Yes, I do.” What more was there to say, he doubted there was anything important about him she wasn’t already well informed about.

“Then it’s a perfect solution. She needs men like you.” She patted his shoulders, giving a short grunt of approval.

“As for my baby - he likes you. If he calms down a bit he will accept you to lead and take care. I will be calmer myself when I have a direct source to report to me about his well-being and behavior. And you – you are out of the picture. The company is a world of its own, a source of power of its own. You will be safe there for a few years, yet you will be able to work and earn money. My, don’t I have a gift for advertising! She should pay me!” She finished with another of her ready, amused laughs. He had of course no proof, but he guessed that she had to be tough and serious, but preferred to have some good fun in an easy and comfortable atmosphere. However, she knew exactly when there was a time to be serious, and when to allow her smile to return.

“What kind of work? I mean, except having an eye on your son?” Not that the answer mattered anymore, he had already made his decision.

“I can’t tell you. It’s dangerous, but you’ll be well taken care of. From what I heard the medical care is outstanding, as is their technical standard. I heard they can bring back the dead if they have to.” She laughed, letting go of his shoulders for good. With firm steps she returned to her seat. Once she had sat down she offered him her hand.

“Jerome Roux, do you agree to help me taking care of my boy, if I guarantee you that you will be safe while you do so?”

“Do I have to become his lover?” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, trying to tell from the wrinkles around her mouth he could dare to grin. He rather didn’t.

“That’s something the two of you have to sort out on your own. It has nothing to do with our little talk,” was the plain answer.

“Well then, sign me up for the adventure.” He took her hand and shook it. He thought he should better be careful or he would break her delicate fingers, but once more he was surprised by the strength of her hands. She would probably break his fingers if he didn’t give her an equally firm, determined handshake.

“Good. I’ll arrange everything. Please don’t tell Gem what we talked about, I’ll explain my scheme to him after Christmas. Well then!” She clapped her hands. A few steps and she was back at the stove, lifted the lid of the pot and took a deep breath. Satisfied, she nodded.

“As you have nowhere else to go, I assume you will join us over Christmas, until your departure in January.” She opened the cupboard and selected a glass with dried herbs. He opened his mouth to reply, but she shut him up with a wave of her hand.

“It’s still an hour until dinner. Be a dear and tell Gem to prepare the guest room for you. Ah, and don’t worry!” She turned around and grinned at him, giving him a knowing wink that even made the Frenman’s cheeks blush. “My room is downstairs,” she continued. “I’ve never really wanted to know what’s going on in the boys’ rooms once they turned 13.”


End file.
